Hermione Granger and the Kiss of Time
by Lousy Poet Automaton
Summary: All her life, Hermione dreamed of other times, other places. She always thought them merely dreams, until the day her Hogwarts acceptance letter arrived. And she knew. She could only look to the coming years with both anticipation and fear.
1. The Forgotten Lady

Hermione Granger and The Kiss of Time

by Lousy Poet Automaton

AN:

This is my lone disclaimer for the start of the story. I don't own Harry Potter or any associated characters, settings, ideas, etc.

I'm still collecting rejection letters for my original stuff. The good news is I am approaching the 1,000,000 word hump that's supposed to indicate I've put in enough work to reach 'publishable' quality.

This is yet another random experiment. All my serious writing effort is going into the stuff that might someday actually get paid for, so I no longer put much work into editing or researching for fanfics. This is purely stress relief, so my apologies in advance for typos I don't catch, and various canon details I'm sure I will miss. Consider continuity and canon errors to be AU changes, if you like.

xxx Prologue: The Forgotten Lady

She woke and examined her surroundings. They never changed, of course. In the first century of her imprisonment, she had tried to make things more comfortable - conjuring furniture and clothes when they crumbled and broke, etching runes into them to make them last.

But, oh! The ages passed so slowly.

Though the Elixir staved off death and the decline of her mind and body, it did nothing for her soul, which ebbed and cooled. Only the slightest, smoldering heat remained at the core of her heart.

After the second century, she stopped caring about appearances. Alone in her tomb, did it really matter if the clothes crumbled right off of her skin? Though she did still bother to wash herself with the water from the well, to keep herself and the crumbling stone walls clean.

After the third century, she shattered all the mirrors and vanished the fragments. Her appearance never changed anyway. Outwardly, she was a woman with ageless features and a lean figure that could have passed for twenty or forty.

Some years, she thought she had gone mad. But the Elixir's effects always brought her out. Perhaps there would have been less pain if she stayed mad, and stopped taking it, just waiting for death. But sooner or later, even during the occasional year of madness, she would dream of him, and then she would remember what it was she still lived for.

All that mattered were her dreams, and the steady tick of the dials of the clock on the vault door. In her dreams, she was never alone. She had her family. She had her love. They kept her alive, they kept her imbibing a drop of the Elixir each day, the only nourishment for her lean, pale body.

During the long, painful hours of wakefulness, there was little for her to do but practice. She practiced magic. She trained her body. In preparation for the day that seemed farther and farther away in her thoughts.

But this day, she realized, was different. She staggered closer to the clock. The arms on the dials were approaching the places she had marked so very long ago, where she'd scratched in a date, a time, a hope that kept her going.

"So close," she whispered, then flinched. Her own voice seemed startling again. She could not have that.

She gestured at the cracked bowl set into the floor. Time turned back for a moment, enchantments were restored. And her Pensieve functioned again. Another sweep of her hand and row after row of phials rebuilt themselves against the far wall, and the ghosts of her memories re-condensed into the enchanted glassware.

She had better immerse herself in those old memories. Even with Occlumency and the Elixir, the passage of these endless years meant that, surely, she had forgotten most everything.

One more spell, she cast. Her form shimmered, folded in on itself. Became smaller. Became younger.

Each day now, her heart beat faster.


	2. Vicarious Experience

Hermione Granger and The Kiss of Time

by Lousy Poet Automaton

xxx AN: My anxiety has exploded beyond all bounds. A fairly well-connected literary agent has actually asked to read a _full_ manuscript of mine. It will probably come to nothing. But it's further along than I've gotten before, and considering I've only submitted to 3 agents so far... maybe my chances aren't too loathesomely horrible.

xxx Chapter 1: Vicarious Experience

Hermione's heart did not stop when she first met Harry. There was no sudden recognition, or a spark that ignited a passion beyond all things.

She was still a kid.

Instead, there was a familiarity she sank into the longer she stayed around him. She was still uncomfortable and awkward around others, still driven only by her own personal achievement as quantifiably measured by grades, still had difficulty relating. Except with Harry, who did not seem to mind her slip-ups, her occasional moments of Slytherin-esque arrogance and ambition.

In many ways, her social position at Hogwarts was even worse than it was at her old school. Not only was she still a nerd, now she was also a _mudblood_, and not only that, because the blasted hat had dropped her into the wrong bloody house, there were far fewer fellow geeks to lose herself among.

The ideals of the House of Lions had appealed to her, but it seemed that the youthful interpretation of the house's desired qualities resulted in the sort of environment she loathed - one where popularity, impulsiveness, rule-breaking and 'fun' advanced one's status more than personal achievement and the quiet courage of doing the right thing. No, individuals got ahead by yelling about it and having no self-control, by impulsive, almost destructive behavior. Rules were not for following for the sake of the whole, they were only an _inconvenience_.

The only worse house would have been Slytherin, where status was about which family one was from. Though sometimes Hermione doubted even that - for all that the snakes talked a good game about looking down on muggles and the muggleborn, there was no group more willing to compromise their principles in order to get ahead. Perhaps she might have been loathed for her blood, but they would have quickly gotten over that and used her to accumulate as many points and to improve their academic standing as much as possible.

After all, she was _still_ only tolerated for that same purpose in Gryffindor, except that they were self-righteous shites about it. And, God, the way they talked about her behind her back...

No doubt about it, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff would have been better for her. The ravens because nothing mattered more than the mind, and the badgers because it took more strength to be quiet and kind, to be loyal, than it took to be anything the other three houses looked for.

She managed to think these things even as she struggled to get her ridiculous sobbing and boo-hooing under control. So undignified! Had she not spent years getting tougher? Getting ostracized, getting made fun of, getting her bags moved around, getting tripped in hallways... Why had she let her guard down here in the magical world?

Why had she thought it would be _different_ in a world where a significant fraction of the people were taken up with the ideals of another Hitler?

"Stuh-stuh-stupid!" she moaned, wiping angrily at her face.

_They are just children._

In the mirror, her reflection was the same face she had. Reddened, be-snotted and teary. But the eyes...

Hermione blinked and gazed around herself. The water from the tap was still flowing, but slower than molasses. Behind her, the door was being opened, but it was moving at a glacial pace - while she watched it, it seemed to be still. Only when she glanced away now and then could she tell that it was opening.

In the gap, in the reflection, she could see one of those brilliant gemstone eyes.

"Oh. I thought this accidental magic stuff would stop happening once I came here..."

_I am a little more than accidental magic._

"You are totally a figment of my imagination. I hope. Unless I am crazy even for a witch..."

The expression on the face of the other her softened. She raised a hand and pressed it against the glass. Hermione put a hand up to match it, and was not surprised by the warmth she felt from the other side.

This was not first or the second time this other had visited her. She had lost count of the times since she was a child.

_Good. You are becoming calm._

Hermione was still miserable. "I'm still going to be a mess when this bit's over and Harry sees me."

_Nobody is strong all the time. You will need him now. But some day, it will be your turn to be there when he needs you._

"All anyone's going to need me for is to do their bloody homework," she hissed.

The other raised a hand, and made a gesture that evaporated the tears, and flushed the extra blood from her cheeks and eyes and nose.

"Don't do that!"

_Why not?_

"Because they're my tears! If you keep vanishing them like this, how will I know if they were ever real?"

The smile was small. It was also sad. But it was warm and accepting too. It did not fit on her kid's face. It was a timeless expression. It was love. Affection. There was no fighting that. She could not make herself want to.

_Now, do you feel better yet?_

A shuddering breath, and then it was free. The bad feelings, the resentment. "You mustn't keep fixing these things for me," Hermione said. "How will I ever learn to do it myself?"

_Just once in a while, I promise. Now, Harry and Ron are about to join you in here - _

"That, that dunderhead! Why I ought to - "

_They will be followed by a troll._

Hermione gawked. Shrieked, "What?"

_They are going to save you, little one. Even if you do nothing else._

Getting saved by Harry Potter, who had never been cruel to her? Acceptable. Being a damsel in distress was a loathesome thought, but it was not too bad if it was Harry she was being a damsel for. Ron 'I'll mock you except for when you do my homework' Weasely? Unacceptable! Not even as a witness!

The other seemed to read that on her face, and laughed.

_That's more like it, little one. Now, I cannot hold this moment for much longer. You have a few seconds yet to think about how, perhaps, you might join in rescuing yourself._

The moment of panic was over. She was composed. Her mind was flashing through a hundred possible ideas. She would figure something out. That is what her mind was for, now that it was not overwhelmed by the handicap of overwhelming emotion. She had her wand in hand. She would be ready.

"Thanks. Um. When will I see you again?"

_Perhaps by the end of the school year. Never doubt in yourself, Hermione Granger. You are stronger than you know. You are already smart, and kind, and loyal. You are where you are because others will need you to find the lion inside. Starting now._

Okay. She could do this!

xxx end ch 1


	3. The Wisdom of Waiting Well

Hermione Granger and The Kiss of Time

by Lousy Poet Automaton

xxx Chapter 2: The Wisdom of Waiting Well

It was unrealistic to hope that it would all change at once. Of course it was. She had hoped for it anyway. But as those first days passed after the troll incident, the brief spark of admiration amongst her fellow lion cubs faded, as did their respect and tolerance, and soon it was back to the way it was before.

Almost.

Every time, at night, when she was zonked, and the day felt particularly hard, and she felt particularly lonely, Hermione would remember that moment when the troll went down, and the look the three of them had shared. Relief. Surprise. The ineffable acknowledgement of being bonded by the profound stress of a moment of true life-threatening danger.

And how impressed the professors were! After all, they were just first years.

She remembered it, the fear, the exhilaration, the pounding in her heart, the way everything seemed to slow down. The door and the stalls pulverized by the troll's wild swings. The crazy moment of observation that the bits of wood were really rather a lot like toothpicks or matchsticks...

Getting shoved out of the path of another swing by Harry, whose off-arm was broken. The astonishment in the boys' eyes when she had risen up and calmly put all her power into transfiguring all those bits of wood into hundreds of needles all at once. Some small as an eyelash, some long as a railroad spike. The effort exhausted her, burned through all her child's reserve.

Ron's open-mouth when she yelled at him to get to it and float the needles would have made her laugh, if they were not about to get crushed to death.

"Lev-i-oh-_SAH,_ Weasley!" She had shrieked. No, not shrieked! She had commanded it. Yes. Queenly. Not shrill. Maybe. Swish and flick you idiots!

Ron and Harry put a wall of floating, wobbling, shining metal between the three of them and the troll. And with the force and speed of its own unstoppable charge, the troll had run into the barrier, its own muscles driving those tiny projectiles through its tough skin, into its swinging arms, into its lunging face, its eyes. Its skull. It did not fall with a roar, but with an awful, wet, gasping blurble, as its lungs fired bloody foam out a dozen puncture wounds.

After the adrenaline had faded and the three of them were not faint or trembling or hyper-ventilating, Ron yelled "Ace!" in relief and victory and pale, wincing Harry put his working arm around the both of them and laughed.

Ron still had no use for her brain, mostly, by the way he acted. Still was put off by her strict observance of the rules. Though, well, he was kinder, when he remembered. When he wasn't being a tall drink of tosser.

And Harry... Ah, Harry. He hurt her even more. Because he became just close enough to start talking to her about his fledgling crush on some older tart named Cho Chang.

How long until boys got the least bit perceptive anyway? Did he not notice how pinched her face got every time he would pine about Chang? It made her ill to be supportive and cheery when all she really wanted to do was somehow press fast forward so they could get to the when that really mattered, the when that left her waking up every morning with a tingle on her lips and a fire in her heart.

Hermione told herself to be patient. The one in the mirror had told her, after all. They were still children. Even she herself. None of them were yet the people they were going to be. Years away. Push too hard and she'd just mess things up.

Or, well. Were the mistakes she was going to make set in stone or not? Were events predetermined? Had they already happened? Time seemed to be a funny thing.

"Hell, Granger. What is with you?" Ron muttered, sent once more to pull her out of the library, remind her that it was time to eat. "You've been studying even harder since the troll thing."

Hermione leaned back and stretched, joints all along her back and shoulders popping in sequence. Her fingers were ink-stained from handling her quills and inks for so many hours so many days in a row, skritching foot after foot of notes as she evaluated what spells she needed to learn next. Some days, she remembered to vanish the ink, most days, she did not care. What she really focused on was high-level potion and alchemical theory, because that is what she would need by the end of the year.

How could she explain it to them? She had thought that the school was safe. Thought that the events she had been shown by her mirror self were still so far away - far enough that it was okay to merely excel at the given material for the year. Now, she knew that it was not safe. That the dangers were coming regardless of their youth or the best intentions of the faculty.

"Lions need teeth and claws. I'm never going to be beating anyone up with my fists, and I'm never going to be popular and have tons of friends at my back. So I have to work for my weapons. Just pack away some bread and something, make, I don't know, a sandwich for me. I'll get to the common room, later. I have to keep working."

Harry shook his head. "You'll drive yourself totally bonkers. Raving mad. You wake up at dawn and run and stuff, or swim in the lake," Ron's eyes widened, having not known, about that bit "and every spare second, you're either practicing with your wand or flipping through books for upperclassmen. And I've heard from the other girls, you're up far later than everyone."

She sighed. Maybe they were right. She could not do this all at once anyway. And if she sometimes gave in, then they would ease up on her in turn. The truth was she was always tired. The morning routine was particularly exhausting, at first, as she had never been the physical sort before.

Oh, she wanted to tell them. She wanted to grab their shoulders and shake them. Their studies weren't just grades. They were not going to be allowed to just be kids. But that would definitely be too much pushing.

"All right then. Let's go eat."

They walked along those long corridors. The boys glowed with that child-like aura of invincibility, of innocence. And she, she was half-faded into the long shadows cast by the statues and the suits of armor.

And still her mind never stopped.

With the suspicious events around the security measures set in place by the teachers around the poorly hidden secret of Nicolas Flamel's masterpiece, the boys had steadily been drawn in a little bit by her serious, glowering demeanor. They were only into it enough to talk about it, to discuss their suspicions about Snape. But not enough to _work_ towards being better prepared.

It was different for Hermione. She now knew that even this first year was critical to the future. Because it would be her only chance to study a Philosopher's Stone up close.

Then it struck her. Her impassive face stretched into a langorous, sly smile. "Hang on now. Harry Potter, have you been watching me in the mornings?"

"I just, uh, well - "

Hah. Was that a blush? Hmm. Best not read too much into that. She would just embarrass herself - still flat as a board and her butt was indistinguishable from a boy's. Tease him too much and it would just get Ron teasing her.

Neither of them would recognize flirting yet.

"You're welcome to join me. Start putting on a little muscle now, your chances with girls are better later."

Harry blushed a little deeper, and sadly, his eyes went farther away, thinking about someone else again. Oh well.

She mouthed Cho's name and Harry caught it, started to take the thought seriously.

"Ugh, girls. Bah. All crazy." Ron muttered. "Say now, though. Think it might help with quidditch? I'll surely be trying out next year..."

"Quite. Don't you know how much effort professional players put into exercise? Helps them with the brooms - you know, to hang on with just your legs at high speed, so both arms are free to swing your beater bat or throwing a quaffle harder or if you need to do an extra long reach for a snitch - " She was making this up, but she thought it sounded reasonable.

The boys got to talking about that with self-reinforcing, positive feedback enthusiasm.

Hmm, well worth the time she would lose this evening. Now she had to nudge them into making that commitment.

Every little bit she could get them into investing into the future made the darkness to come a little brighter. Or would it? She had read of thought experiments involving cats in boxes. Did not the things she observed of what was to come determine that those events would come to pass no matter what she did?

"How can you look so gloomy with all this food in front of you. Can't get it at all."

"Hermione, stop staring at your plate and eat something."

She did like it when Harry worried about her. She did. She liked his eyes on her already. She could not imagine how much harder it would get when her emotions grew. Ugh, the foreknowledge that he would not be her first was awful. And he would not even be her second. It was cruel to know too many hints about the path of love's missteps.

"Hermione? Are you alright? You got so red..."

"Sorry, thinking stupid thoughts is all. What have you sampled tonight that you would recommend, ser Weasley?"

Make the best of things. All anyone could do, really. And at least she had plenty of warning.

"Garlic potatoes: buttery and wonderful. Asparagus is soggy. Roast is a bit burned. Salad's bruised - house elves tossed 'em too much. Recommend the fish, nice and flaky, and the pumpkin soup."

Harry shook his head. "Unbelievable. You tried all that already?"

"Don't question. Let's just accept the blessing that is Ron Weasley, for scouting a path through the landmines of each meal."

She ladled out soup for herself, a dollop of mash, and a healthy amount of fish, and after a few bites, sighed and nodded her thanks the redhead's way, not that he noticed. The boy did know his food.

Hermione considered what it would be like to kiss him, and hoped that he would learn quickly not to be a slobbering sod.

That sweet ache again, the comparison she could not help, with the man who would kiss her just right when they finally get there.

Yes, she could wait for that. But she would not be sitting still, waiting. She would be readying herself as she walked on the path to meet him.

xxxend chapter


	4. The Tower

Hermione Granger and The Kiss of Time

by Lousy Poet Automaton

xxx Chapter 3: The Tower

He was so close. He was going to catch it! He _needed_ to catch it.

Wind scraping his skin, blasting his hair back. A tiny speck of gold flitting.

_Why must you catch it?_

Why? Because!

His stomach pushed up against his lungs as he threw himself into a dive. His hands were clammy in the uniform's gloves. And despite how hard he clamped his legs together, how hard he held on with one hand, it felt like he was sliding off. But he needed to stretch! It was just there, it was right there in front of him.

His fingertips brushed against the wings. And then his broom jerked to a halt so suddenly he was flung off.

_You'll never catch it, celebrity. Freak. Spoiled. Nobody will notice you now._

Harry was screaming. Screaming. He was falling. Headfirst. His flailing limbs did nothing to change his orientation.

Save me. Hermione! Ron! Somebody save -

Meeting the ground did not hurt as much as he thought it would. It felt like all the beatings Dudley and his friends had ever put on him. He thought it would be worse. This was okay. They'd fix him up and -

Pomfrey's worried face. "Move your fingers, Mr. Potter. Your toes?"

"Ah, what a disappointment. Nothing like his father after all. Who gets paralyzed in his first game like that?"

He wanted to scream. Why couldn't they hear him? It wasn't his fault. Somebody. Somebody jinxed his broom!

Fat hands, fat fingers glided by his eyes. He felt himself moving. But nothing in his body, just in his ears, just in the way his head flopped back on his neck.

"What rubbish! Now this freak will be a burden on us our whole lives!"

No, they couldn't just take him back! He was a wizard! He was special!

They crammed him into the cupboard under the stairs. Closed the door. He heard the click of the lock, the latches sliding home.

It was dark. And he could do nothing but weep. God! He should have listened to Hermione, why the hell did he want to do stupid fucking Quidditch? Now he was nothing, worthless, they'd just leave him in there, forget him.

Each minute felt like a year. He could not feel his heart beating. There was a machine to breathe for him. There was the drip, drip, dripping of his tears, in time with the fluids in the line going to his wrist.

The Dursleys did not even open the door to feed him. They changed his IV bottles from the outside, joked about the liquefied garbage they were giving him through his feeding tube straight into his distended, diseased belly. It was rank in his room. Awful. His excretions plopped down through a hole in the wooden slats under his body.

He started to wail. Like a child. Like an animal kicked and broken. And alone.

_Hmm. Is it that time already?_

Who was that? Sounded familiar, somehow.

"Let me out," he croaked. "Please! Please, please, please..."

_Hmm._

The knob twitched.

_Dear one, the locks are on your side of the door. You have to be the one to open the way._

How could he? He couldn't do anything for himself anymore, he was fucked! He was cracked and shattered and tossed aside like one of Dudley's toys! He couldn't even wipe the shit crusted on his -

_The Harry I know does not waste time feeling sorry for himself. Now, open the door. How long have you been here? You're a wizard. Magic finds a way. If your body is broken, your spirit can still move._

What a crock of dung! What a -

_That's a little better anyway. Get madder, you little boy! Come on! When you fall, the thing to do is get up._

The locks and latches rattled over the deathless sound of the ventilator's regular, puffing movement. Did he do that?

_That's it. You're not worthless Harry. I will always believe in you._

The voice was soft. It was filled with everything he had ever wanted to hear in a voice that addressed him. It was the rain washing everything away. It was the sun against his cold flesh. It was the humanizing comfort and dignity of clean clothes. It was the steel in his spine

Steps, going away. Getting fainter.

"Don't leave me!"

The door opened.

"Come down, Harry. Have some tea."

He stood and stepped through. Not that what was on the outside seemed much better than his cupboard. It was all stone. Damp, dark rock. Very old smell to the air. And the only light was this phosphorescent moss on the ceiling.

"Watch your step. The staircase is quite narrow."

It was. It was one of those spiraling stone stairways in very old castles, steep and sharp-angled.

At the end, there was a table in a tiny room. On the table was a pot of tea, two cups, and two lit candles. Someone sat on the other side. He could not see her face, under her hood. But the outline of her jaw and neck drew his eyes. And thick, silver curls spilled out onto her shoulders. Behind her, there were shelves on the wall, endless shelves, with crystal bottles all of the same shape. To the left, there was a small well. To the right, a pedestal with a reddish crystal caught the flickering yellow rays from the candles. When he looked over his shoulder, the corridor he had come in through was gone - there was instead a massive door, all bronze and stone, with clocks covering its face, ticking.

"Please. Sit."

He did so. A sip of the tea was fire in his mouth and filled him up with the sun. "Thanks," Harry whispered. "I couldn't get out." He wiped his face, ashamed of his earlier helplessness.

"Sometimes, a person just needs to hear the right thing."

"Y-yeah," his breath shuddered out.

"You know what kept you in there, right?"

He supposed he did. He could get it, a bit.

"It could have happened like that," Harry whispered, clenching his fists.

"But it didn't."

"It could have."

She shrugged. She picked up her cup and took a sip herself. "On any given day, a man or woman can trip down a flight of steps. People die of diseases, of old age, of broken hearts, of foolish, youthful daring. But it's not death you fear."

He pulled his arms in tight around himself, clutched at his shoulders. He could feel his hands. When he pressed his feet against the floor, his toes bumped into the leather of his shoes. It figured that even in his dreams, he gave himself shoes that did not quite fit right.

"No, it's not death I fear."

"It's not what I fear either."

She stood and walked close. She was tall. When he put his arms around her and pressed his face against her side, he felt tiny. Felt like a child. She was warm and soft and smelled like snow, like autumn sunsets, summer showers, spring floodwaters.

"You are a child. For a little while longer, anyway. Everyone is afraid, sometimes."

He cried again, but it felt good this time. Clean. "Who are you?"

"Hmm. It would do you no good to know. Not yet."

"Will I be seeing you again?"

"I'm always with you, Harry. Always."

He took another deep breath. Her hand in his hair was better than any glimpse in the mirror could have been. Better than half-formed imaginings of his parents.

"Can't I call you something?" If he had no name for her, he'd forget. He could tell. He did not want to forget her when he woke. He could not.

"Oh, dearest. I shouldn't tell you. Well. I suppose I can give you a name that won't make too much difference either way."

"But it's not your name?"

"It is my name too."

She knelt down and put her face right next to his. He could feel her breath against his cheeks. Those curling locks brushed against his forehead. But he could see nothing of what she looked like. Lips pressed against his brow. Fever hot. Shivering.

The quiet between them stretched to forever.

Finally, she whispered into his ear, "If you called me Rowena Ravenclaw, it would not be entirely inaccurate."

Harry tried to swallow past the sticky, painful shard of something in his throat. "And if I call, will you come for me? When I need you?"

"Don't look too hard for me, Harry. I am already at your side."

When he blinked the crust out of his eyes, the light of dawn pierced a gap in the thick scarlet and gold curtains. He tried to hold on to everything. Tried not to forget.

"Merlin, Potter. You got to see Ma'am Pomfrey, yeah? You were moaning and stuff all night!"

Harry shut them out. It was sliding out. The tighter he held on, the faster it went away.

"Rowena Ravenclaw," he muttered. He pressed his knuckles agains his forehead. He would not forget everything. He would not.

_I am already at your side._

"Boys? You decent in there?"

"Why don't you come in and see, Granger!" The boys laughed. "What are you lot doing up here?"

A procession of girls' faces poked in through the door. There was the smell of eggs. Bacon. Ham. Fresh baked bread. "Men of Gryffindor, your ladies have prepared breakfast for you! Don't get used to it now."

The giggling, the laughter, sliced free the last shadows holding him.

A hand tugged his blanket off his face. "Harry?"

"Hermione," he got out. "I, ah. I had this dream..." he shook his head. "Can't... quite... remember."

When he sat up and looked at her, with the sun on her face, for just a moment Harry thought he saw someone else.

"I like the pajamas, Harry. Very cute."

He coughed, smiled sheepishly back at her.

"Come on. Let's eat." When she offered her hand, he took it, and he thought he smelled something over the scent of breakfast. Something far away, and yet very, very familiar.

xxxend chapter


	5. Stolen Kiss

Hermione Granger and The Kiss of Time

by Lousy Poet Automaton

xxx Chapter 4: Stolen Kiss

Oh, no. He must have been following her all day. She had wandered about in a dazing thinking about alchemical matrices and mumbling the syllables for analytical spells, and now he had her cornered.

Well, she was not particularly intimidated by Draco Malfoy when he was alone. She rather thought that with all the running and swimming, and given that girls got their growth spurt first, she probably had more muscle than him by now, plus she knew a fair number of spells that first years were not supposed to know yet. And since Gryffindors did not like the House of Snakes anyway, it was not as if Draco could influence them to treat her any worse than they already did.

She spun on her heel. "What is it, Malfoy?"

He had his hands up. "You, mudblood. You are quite confounding..."

Faster than she had thought him capable of, Draco lunged in, and had her shoved against the wall. It was a dimly lit hall, and there was no one around. He was pressed in close to her.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hermione hissed.

He smiled. And then pressed his mouth against hers. Bruisingly hard. It, and the distinct sensation of the bulge between his legs pressing against her thigh had her paralyzed.

Draco tilted his head back. "Going to cry, mudblood? You are not completely without useful qualities. Perhaps when we are older, I shall buy you. Your blood is impure, but you could be interesting as a concubine. Perhaps I'll pass you around to my friends. It's a better life than you could get, being an unemployable nothing."

Really? Really? Who thought like that?

It was his turn to be shocked. He was still blinking the lights out of his eyes, on the ground, the bruise on his temple rising.

Hermione checked her elbow, ensuring that she had not cracked the tip somehow. Then she laughed. God. She had been so worried. What a relief. It was merely a stolen kiss. The memory had come to pass but it was not, as she had feared, a sign that she would somehow fall in love with this totally unsuitable, if rather handsome, worm. She reminded herself to be more cautious in general, and to not read too much into these future glimpses specifically-facts without context were merely facts.

"Draco Malfoy, I must thank you. It was driving me mad, wondering what I could be thinking that might result in something like this. Now, I know it's just you being quite. Quite an idiot."

She winced as she touched her lips. Yes, bruised. And, ugh. His spit tasted like, what? Like chocolate frog? Thank the Gods. In the memory, she had her eyes closed, like she was lost in bliss. Or something. Really, that flash, that image was just the instant her eyes were closing because of how revolting it was. The vision cut off before her face could crumple in disgust.

Hermione should not have worried herself so. Had she really been afraid that a kiss from some eleven or twelve-year-old brat would start off some horrible mistake of a relationship?

"Pfah. You'll regret not accepting, mudblood."

It was almost enough to get her giggling. Did he think he was giving her an intimidating look, eyes flashing? His knees were shaking, and he looked very much like a child who did not get his way.

"Oh, Draco. I feel sorry for you. Those parents of yours with their medieval mind-set... time has passed them by, and they don't even know it."

She strode away, not in the least afraid when he threatened hexes at her back. He had already used up his quota of courage for the week. Really, what had been the motivation behind that anyway? Did he think such a thing would traumatize her? Humiliate her? If so, purebloods were as behind in bullying as they were in social conventions. Bullies in the non-magical realm had done far worse to her than some stupid kiss and snide insults.

Hermione shuddered. Fred and George, by contrast, were bullies of the first order. They were physically strong, magically powerful, endlessly creative, and behind that affectation of good ol' boy charm, they were malicious and cruel. She hoped they would never choose to target her.

In any case, she had more important concerns. She was now reasonably certain that when she encountered the Philosopher's stone, she would be able to take an infinitesimally small, but still significant sample. Nobody would notice. For all that Hermione was a novice at magic, she had a cheat sheet in her head, and more than this, wizards had allowed themselves to fall behind muggles in various matters. The most important of which was measures.

A world that still dealt in physical scales and balances and for which the preparation of potions was reliant on human smell and sight had extremely few people that understood the concept of the very, very, very small.

The Philosopher's Stone bound within its crystalline structure tremendous energies. Enough energy to bend rules, to warp not only laws of science, but laws of magic too. It was, from what Hermione had read, durable in some ways, and fragile in others.

With these insights and the guidance of excerpts from about a twentieth of all the titles in the library, Hermione had devised her spell and been practicing it every day, to obtain greater and greater precision. It was simply a drill. A very, very small drill of light.

Lost in her thoughts as she climbed her way back to the Gryffindor common room, she imagined the moment it would happen, her casting her tiny, undetectably weak spell, that would carve a mere microgram out of the Stone. What she took would be too small to see by human eyes as well as magical senses. Just the tiniest sample, a particle of compacted soul-spark, to be embedded in the bone of her sternum until she was skilled enough to recreate the full Stone.

She gave the password absently and stepped in, only to stagger to one side.

"Oh, Hermione! There you are! Where have you been? We have to help Hagrid with the... with the, you know, the thing!" Ron made a face, as if he was spitting between the hands he held up to his mouth. He spread his hands outward and made a _fwooshing_ sound.

Yes, Weasley, very discreet. Though it did get a giggle out of her. And an apology.

"Sorry, sorry. I was... held up." Actually, several minutes removed from the experience, she was starting to think that Draco had some potential as a kisser. It was really too bad he was so horrid-he would grow up to be a beautiful man. A waste of good looks and space.

Harry raced in, looking quite... harried... but the relief on his face at the sight of her made Hermione feel just a little guilty about how little she cared about this night's planned foolishness.

Hermione could not bring herself to consider the matter of Hagrid and Norbert to be anything more than silly. She would have been just as worried as the boys, if she had not been reading like mad.

As much as it pained her to admit it, she had come to the understanding that for all the existence of a Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot and rules and regulations, there was no _rule of law_ in the magical world. Death-Eaters had bribed their way out of punishments, and would do so again. Justice came at the point of a wand. Might, which could mean financial might, political influence, charisma or magical strength, made right. Even the greatest villain of the century, guilty of killing orders of magnitude more innocents than Voldemort ever had, Gellert Grindelwald himself, stayed in a cushy, luxurious prison in the mountains, with a view of a lake. No Nuremberg Trials in the magical world, no-that sort of thing is merely for barbaric and ridiculous muggles and their crazy new-fangled ideas. Gellert got three square meals and high tea with crumpets, a clean place to live, and escorted morning walks through the forest. He lived a better life than quite a lot of muggles in third-world-countries.

So, an illegal dragon? Bah. Hagrid was one of Professor Dumbledore's pets. The most decorated, powerful, and influential living wizard would have Hagrid out of trouble with little more than a slap on the wrist if he wanted, or he might even get Hagrid sent off to Romania for some community service (and to pick up a legitimate dragon-breeding license).

xxxend chapter


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